“Cards are forbidden,” she said.  “You can get lashes for that.”

“I did once.”

“I did too.”

The room grew silent again.  Tobias held her with his eyes for a long moment.  “You did?”  He narrowed his eyes.  “Ah, the Family.”

In the morning when Tobias came to say goodbye, he had grown calm and thoughtful.

“I believe you and I are cut from the same cloth,” he said.

“Not what they were hoping for.”

“Not even close, but that’s not always a bad thing.  There’s a need for some differences.  Least that’s what I keep trying to tell your father.”

“Does he listen?”

“No, but he’s set on his path.  He does what he has to do.”  Tobias regarded her with concern.  “Will you be all right?”

“I will.  But I’ll find a way to let you know.”

“I’d appreciate that.”  He paused.  “Was it poker?”

“It was.”

“Are you good?”

“I am.”

“That’s our legacy then.”  He smiled and bent to kiss her cheek.  “Pass it on.”

“I will,” she said.  “Pure and focused.”

“Always.”

<>

Ada found Charlotte with books spread on the floor all around her. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for something.  I know I saw it but I don’t remember where.”

“What is it?”

“Wait till I find it,” Charlotte said.  “It’s perfect.”

“Perfect for what?  And how are you going to get back up off the floor?”

“You’re going to help me, I guess.  You know when Ellis and Miller wrote their sketches and we all said what we’d write about?  Do you remember what you said?”

Ada thought for a moment.  “Was it Jenkins McPherson?”

“It was.  And right then I realized that you saw him in a whole different light than I did.”

“I had to see him in a different light.  He asked me to marry him.”

“No, I mean, him wanting to read and write.  I didn’t take that seriously.  You did.”

“Because he was serious.”

“See?  That’s what I mean.  Do you know what a good person you are?”

“I am not a good person,” Ada said.  “I refuse to be.”

“Well, that’s wonderful, but I think you are in spite of all your best intentions.  It’s a book about the Oregon Trail.”

They sifted through the endless volumes till Ada held one up in her hand. “Is this it?”

Charlotte took it from her and opened the cover, thumbing through the pages.  “It is.  Look.  It’s got chapter after chapter, written by someone who was right here and not all that long ago.”

“And we’re giving this book to Jenkins McPherson,” Ada said.  Suddenly it came to her.  “Because maybe he’s in it.”

“Or at the very least it’d be familiar to him.  This is everything he’s been telling us about.”

“And maybe someday he could write his own.”